The teardrops falling from his pale blue eyes,
Leave lingering streaks down his dusky cheeks;
An echo of those falling from gray skies,
In autumn's depression, lasting for weeks.
Languishing in his midnight brown study,
Pouring over old, faded photographs,
Revisiting each, his fingers muddy
From trying to resurrect epitaphs.
Once vivid memories, starting to fade,
Dance in the shadows of his hazy past.
Those memories were so lovingly made,
It crushes his soul that they could not last.
He cries in the twilight of brilliant mind,
Lost in a fading fog of reverie.
Bright images he can no longer find,
Flicker like stars through night clouds, distantly.
A flame, solitaire, with a bright green hue,
Pierces his fog like a beacon at night.
He freezes, not knowing what he should do;
A deer, watching an emerald headlight.
A voice near as powerful as the sun,
Chases the mists of confusion away,
And he sees all his days, every one
Clearly remembered, as though yesterday.
This taste of Grace gives his spirit a lift,
Though he knows in his heart it can not last.
He thanks the Minstrel for his precious gift,
One he knows, even now, is fading fast.
His family will never understand,
A change that comes over him suddenly:
Why the man of dementia looks so grand,
While losing so much of his memory.
Mick McKellar
October 2014
An island of recall in a sea of shadowy mists is a joy that warms the soul.
Mick
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